


so used to being used

by viktores_secret



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Blindfolds, Bondage, F/M, Riding Crops, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-17 14:52:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11277552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viktores_secret/pseuds/viktores_secret
Summary: "Do you know what these are, Mr. Nikiforov?"





	so used to being used

"Do you know what these are, Mr. Nikiforov?"

"No, Professor," Viktor lied, voice trembling with excitement.

He knew perfectly well what they were; FIich had been talking about with moans of longing all afternoon.

Seeing them for himself, he understood why. They were perfect -- small enough that' they'd fit around his delicate wrists, polished to a shine that would draw the eye -- and there were so many of them. He could wear them up and down his arms, like bangles.

"Mr. Nikiforov." Umbridge's voice was sickly sweet, but there was steel underneath. She was not the kind of woman to be disobeyed.

He wondered if the ruffles on her blouse would tickle his skin.

"Do you know," she stood up behind her massive desk, and came to stand behind him. She was short; even with Viktor seated, her head wasn't far from his ear as she spoke. "what we do to bad boys at Hogwarts?"

Viktor licked his lips. "No, ma'am," he said softly. "But I look forward to finding out."

[Later:

Slap!

The cuffs are leaving sharp red lines in his skin. Will she heal them afterward as a punishment, or let him keep the bruises as a reminder?

Slap!

The crop stings sweetly against his skin. With his school tie over his eyes (”a clear violation of Educational Degree 69, concerning the dress code…”) he can’t tell when or where the blows are coming, can’t brace himself. Occasionally he’ll feel the brush of a woolly sweater or the press of a mature bosom.

Slap! Against the inside of his thigh, this time. With his arms above his head he’s forced onto his toes, legs trembling with both pain and desire. Ah, if she would just hit him…there…

“You’re not counting, Mr. Nikiforov!”

“Five, Madam Inquisitor,” Viktor croaks, and the crop strikes him firmly between his legs.


End file.
